Manhattan

To me, February 2007 feels like it was just yesterday. It was the day I got to be there, the day I saw the wreckage of Ground Zero in the center of Manhattan— the thousands of missing person fliers, the torn turnout jacket, and the videos that listed the victims. My trucking journeys had brought me to Newark and I had an unexpected day to wait. So being the adventurous person that I am, I grabbed a pullover and headed for the subway. What I saw next would rock my world back to the day, September 11th, the day that took 343 of my brothers and sisters.
I had to grab a city bus from my truck to the subway station and found out that I would have to take the World Trade Center line into Manhattan. I got to Grand Central Station and hopped onto the subway, and within 15 minutes my heart was in my throat. I was there. I was at Ground Zero. Nobody had told me that the line would drop me off right in the middle of where the towers once stood. My feet felt like concrete as I walked through the station. There I was, looking through the chain fence where two massive buildings once stood, where thousands of people are now buried. An indescribable feeling wouldn’t leave me.
In spite of the feeling, I was in New York City for the first time, and first on my “to do” list was to get warm. I quickly discovered that the fleece I had brought was no match for the dry New York cold. This was my first taste of the city, buying mittens from a street vendor at the World Trade Center for three dollars. He wanted a Hamilton but quickly changed his mind and settled for the Washington’s.
I didn’t even get two blocks away after that before getting ambushed by another vendor. But hey, carpe ibidem, seize the moment. He had a South African ruck sack for $20, and I had been looking for one for quite some time. It was pretty funny to talk to him. The whole young American chicky truck driver novelty paid off. I only had seven bucks in my pocket so I asked him where an ATM was. He told me I could have it for the seven dollars, and I told him I’d be right back. He wasn’t going to let me out of his sight without selling me the bag. So for seven dollars I got my ruck sack.
Next on my New York City experience was to get a real New York hotdog. But as I turned away from the clothing vendor, I was stunned. There at Ground Zero, were hawkers. People had gone onto media websites, printed pictures, and were selling them for $20. That was beyond low. It’s something you just don’t do, and I was furious about it. Thankfully, the responsibility for a $110,000 semi truck helped keep me back from doing something I would regret. I ended up finding a Subway before a hotdog stand, and my stomach was allies with my legs. So I quickly downed a sandwich and carried on with my adventure.
With a full tummy and warm fingers, my mind could start taking in all that Manhattan is again. If you have ever seen a movie that is set in New York City, chances are you have seen the bellhops in their top hats and tuxedos. Guess what, they’re real! Some of them are even good looking. The only problem is that I couldn’t find one that wasn’t married. Maybe next time. One of the bellhops was kind enough to point me in the direction of the Tribute WTC Visitor Center, located across the street from where the towers once stood. It was very quiet in the building, I didn’t even hear a whisper. But why would I? The second you enter the center, you see the names and faces of the lost. Walk a little further and you see the charred remains of a window from one of the airplanes. Next to it is the split-in-two turnout jacket and the SCBA (air) pack that experienced such a forceful blow that it made the air bottle explode, forming a large hole in it. This is where I nearly fell. As I felt like I needed to sit down, there was a presence. It felt like I was being held up. It felt like a firefighter was picking me up. After I left the center I could not shake the image from my mind. Even Times Square all lit up seemed dimmed. Three hundred and forty three ran into the buildings that day and never came back.
A year goes by, and people by the tens of thousands attend memorial services; some for family, for coworkers, for complete strangers. The emotionally wounded are still trying to make sense of it all. Two years and one less memorial service, three years and one less wreath laid. Six years and it’s as if it happened a hundred years ago. I know that I will never forget. Never.